


Sengoku Jedi: The Jedi Diaspora

by Deflare



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fictional History, Gen, Multi, Time Skips, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28865400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deflare/pseuds/Deflare
Summary: With the ignominious death of Sheev Palpatine years before his planned Naboo crisis, the galaxy is freed to follow its own course of history. Without of the stranglehold of the Sith, the Force opens up with potential, even as the Republic continues to decline and fray. It's a time of new possibilities, for the Jedi and for everyone else. The end of the Republic is inevitable. The question becomes, what will replace it? And who will lead the future?
Relationships: Dooku/Jocasta Nu/Sifo-Dyas, Padmé Amidala & Jar Jar Binks
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. Prologue: A Solid Thud

Senator Sheev Palpatine loved his homeworld. Naboo’s lush greenery, warm humid air, pale stone buildings, rich patina’d domes—many worlds in the galaxy claimed to be the most beautiful, and Palpatine respected their opinions, but he nonetheless insisted Naboo took the top prize.

Darth Sidious, by contrast, didn’t particularly care. Naboo was just another place, one of ten thousand dejarik boards upon which the Sith made moves against opponents who didn’t even know they were playing a game. If Naboo thrived or if it burned, neither result was of any consequence to Sidious.

But for the moment, Sidious had to remain hidden, and wear the mask of Palpatine. That meant conforming to what the galaxy thought it knew of him. And here is what the galaxy knew:

First, Palpatine was a friend and protegé of Magistrate Hego Damask II of the InterGalactic Banking Clan. Damask had taken a young Palpatine—last survivor of an old aristocratic house of failing means—under his wing, raising the family fortunes to a lofty new height, and introducing him to the galaxy’s elite. (The galaxy did not know, of course, that Damask was Darth Plageuis, Lord of the Sith, who had dubbed young Sheev as Darth Sidious.)

Second, with Damask’s blessing, Palpatine rose quickly in Naboo politics, making himself the prime candidate to take the seat of Senator Vidar Kim after the latter’s assassination on Coruscant. Palpatine won handily, and had become a fixture of the office, serving for sixteen years and endearing himself to some of the galaxy’s most prominent politicians. (The galaxy did not know that the assassin who killed Kim was hired by Damask, only to be slain by Sidious himself to cover their tracks.)

Third, two weeks previous, Magistrate Damask passed away in his sleep, leaving the IGBC scrambling to replace him and leaving his protegé Palpatine filled with sorrow. (The galaxy did not know about Sidious traveling in secret to Muunilinst to finally rid himself of his decrepit master.)

Fourth, as was only right and proper, Palpatine had taken a brief leave of absence to observe a period of mourning, attending the funeral on Muunilinst and then returning to Naboo to reflect and to leave a marker of his friend at his family estate. (The galaxy did not know about the stopover he’d made at Malastare, to check on his acolyte—apprentice, now, for a long as it was useful for the boy to hold that title—who was bridling with the long limbs and eternal restlessness of adolescence.)

Theatrics, all of it. Honestly, Sidious enjoyed theatrics. He delighted in his ability to trick billions of beings at a time, to wear the mask of grief for a man he had himself murdered. Plagueis had considered Sidious’ dramatic streak a waste of time, but with his former master’s teachings and his own power and plans, Sidious was confident that he had all the time in the galaxy to waste. At his estimate, he only had four years of preparation left before he started making his grander moves.

In the meantime, appearances must be maintained, and politics had its own rules. Which was why Palpatine spent his last day on Naboo at a town hall meeting in Theed, greeting his constituents and hearing their concerns, displaying strength and resolve despite his recent loss. Sidious may not care about Palpatine’s responsibilities, but they still needed to be fulfilled for the sake of his grand designs.

The meeting was over, and he stood outside the civic hall, smiling and shaking hands with members of the Naberrie family (not the most prominent family in Naboo politics, but a scion of their family was a rising star in the youth-oriented political circles of the planet, and there was no harm in treating them with some kindness), when several things happened behind him.

First, a young gungan crossing the street got his foot stuck in a storm drain in the middle of the road. Gungans weren’t a common sight in Theed, thanks to the… complicated history between them and the human settlers of Naboo, but some still made their way in for trade or for town-hall meetings like the one Palpatine had just hosted. The young gungan was probably there with a parent or an employer.

Second, an empty hoverbus piloted by a droid rounded a turn obscured by unusually lush growth. It was returning to the depot for retuning and repairs, which might explain why its programming allowed it to took the blind turn so quickly. Its sensors were also showing a small delay in processing the presence of individuals outside its direct path, which usually wasn’t an enormous problem but would still need adjustment.

Third, the hoverbus detected the young gungan, who was ineffectively pulling on his foot in growing panic. The ever-so-slightly faulty processor of the droid-piloted bus decided to veer not into the foliage on the near side of the road (thus damaging valuable company property), but into the relatively open sidewalk on the other side.

(Sidious’ suppression of his own Force signature also made his form harder for sensors to notice, the better for slipping in and out of places unobserved and for appearing mysterious on a hologram. It served him poorly in this particular moment.)

Sidious got only the barest hint of what was about to happen, as much from his own ears as from any premonition in the Force. Droids displayed no presence in the Force, after all, and he hadn’t expected to be in any danger.

So he only had a moment to think, _Oh, Sithspit,_ before the bus struck him at speed.

Death was instantaneous, leaving only two horrified Naberries, and a young gungan who looked up at the sound and gave a weak, “Oopsie.”

And that is how the line of Darth Bane very nearly came to an end, not with a bang or a whimper but with a solid _thud_ , leaving only a half-trained zabrak on Malachor to take up its mantle.

Half a galaxy away, Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas gets his first good night of sleep in years.


	2. The Great Release

Sifo-Dyas blinked as he stared up at the warm brown-grey stone ceiling of his quarters. The sparse room was motionless, lit by a soft warm light, the only sound the faint chirping of birds. He’d set the sound on a timer years before, as a way to gently alert him to the time. Otherwise, when his sleep was interrupted, he risked barging out into a temple devoid of life, which combined very poorly with some of the visions that plagued him.

He hadn’t actually awoken to the sound of the birds in… ever.

He wasn’t sweating. His heart wasn’t slamming. Fatigue didn’t cling to his eyelids. And he hadn’t dreamt of blood. No clashing of armies, no cries of the dying, no hatred thundering through the galaxy, no planets burned to dust, no ominous raspy breathing.

This wasn’t normal. Not for Sifo-Dyas, anyway. Not since Dooku had left the Order, if not longer.

He swept off his blanket (not twisted into a gnarled knot by thrashing) and stood to ready himself for the day. He needed to speak to someone. Quickly.

–

‘Someone,’ unsurprisingly, turned out to be Master Yoda.

Sifo-Dyas would have preferred another of his fellow Council members. Plo Koon, perhaps, or Yarael Poof. No councilor lacked for patience, but those two had a certain tolerance for his oracular abilities that made him comfortable going to them with his concerns.

Yoda mistrusted visions of the future, a distrust that had only grown as Sifo-Dyas’ visions grew more nightmarish. And, Sifo-Dyas had to admit, as his own ability to handle the stress of those visions faltered.

“A busy night it was, last night,” Yoda said in good humor as he poured tea. Not every meditation chamber-slash-meeting room in the temple had a tea kettle and a supply of tea in stock, but it was unsurprising that Yoda chose one that did. “Most active, hmm? Celebratory, the mood. Much harmless trouble, did our younger Jedi land themselves in.”

“What was the occasion?” Sifo-Dyas asked politely. Normally he wouldn’t care about temple gossip, but the timing was curious.

“No occasion,” Yoda said, shaking his head. “But felt it, we all did. As though a weight were lifted from our chests. A weight we did not know was there.” Yoda sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Felt it, did you?”

“Not… exactly...” Sifo-Dyas said, frowning. “I retired early last night. And I stayed in bed. All night. Without dreaming.”

“Well rested, you do seem,” Yoda said carefully. They both knew this was no small event for Sifo-Dyas. So far as much of the temple was concerned, the puffy bags under the seer’s eyes and the exhausted sluggishness of his thought was simply how the man was. Most had never met the energetic man who caused mischief and snuck into forbidden artifact troves as a child.

The two masters sat in quiet contemplation, sipping their tea, quietly reaching out into the Force. “It does feel lighter,” Sifo-Dyas said softly. “Brighter. Clearer. Like a sun peaking through the clouds after a long time of rain. It’s still overcast, but it promises to get better.”

“Yes. A relief, it is. And yet troubling, because think it was raining, I did not.” Yoda frowned down into his cup, as though he might scry some answers from it. “Too used to the gloom, I had grown.”

“And yet you ignored me when I warned of greater storms coming,” Sifo-Dyas said before biting his tongue.

But Yoda seemed only minimally bothered by the outburst, giving Sifo-Dyas a level look. “Ignored you, I did not. Caution you against growing too attached to your visions, I did. But dismiss them, I did not. I do not. This dark future, do you still see? An army, do you still feel the need to build?”

Sifo-Dyas hesitated. “I… do not know. No visions came to me last night. That’s a good sign itself, but until I get new visions, it’ll be impossible to say.”

“Then monitor the situation, we should. Perhaps investigate, this cleansing of the Force. Good news, it feels like, but complacent, the Jedi should not become. If missed this gloom, we did, then other things we may have missed, hmm?”

“Perhaps even things hidden by the gloom itself,” Sifo-Dyas answered with a nod. “I will be alert, and ask others to do the same.” He took a sip of tea, and allowed himself a small smile. “Meanwhile. Please, what trouble did our youths manage to get themselves into?”

Yoda’s eyes twinkled as he began a story involving several padawans, a bottle of Corellian rye, some poorly considered dares, and a pair of knights who had been attempting a discreet rendezvous. Nothing put the grandmaster in a good mood like talking about the youth.

For once, Sifo-Dyas could let himself relax, and have some hope for the future.

–  
–

The lifting of the cloud over the Force was felt throughout the galaxy. Those sensitive to such things found that, like Yoda, they hadn’t even noticed how clouded and discordant the Force had become until the phenomenon began to slowly, slowly retreat. It would be decades, maybe centuries before whatever had befowled the Force was healed entirely. But it was healing, at least for the moment. 

On Ord Mantell, Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi both paused during a tense standoff with a local crime lord, the lightening of the Force rolling over them like a gentle breeze. With a deep breath, Qui-Gon put on a fierce face, redoubling his intimidation of the crime lord, who began to sweat under the Jedi’s intense focus.

On Serenno, Count Dooku looked up from his datawork and frowned. Setting aside his datapad, he strode out of his office, stepping out onto a balcony and looking up into a twilight sky. He had no illusions anymore about who he was or what he had meddled with; the Dark Side crawled under his skin, offering ever more power as he slowly shed the restraints put on him in a lifetime of Jedi teachings. But now… now it uncoiled, reaching out to the stars, whispering not just of power and destruction as it always had, but of possibility and freedom. It had been kept on a chain, bound into one place, but now it was free to become something new. And it offered to bring Dooku with it.

On Tatooine, a five-year-old Anakin Skywalker paused in his work, looking up from where he was cleaning out the inside of an engine part too small for his mother’s hands. He met Shmi’s eyes, and she looked at him quizzically. Had she felt it too? Had Watto, the toydarian who had won them in a card game a few months earlier? Anakin was still figuring out that not everyone felt the things he felt, heard the things he heard. Shmi gave him a gentle smile, and taking a moment to glance around to make sure Watto wasn’t around, leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against his forehead. Smiling in return, Anakin bent back to work, a corner of his mind wondering where this piece might slot into the schematics that lived in his head.

On Rattatak, another enslaved five-year-old felt the change. Asajj Ventress had been staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, uneasy on the rough cot. She and her maste were traveling, making a round of inspecting her master’s various business holdings. She didn’t like being away from home. Everything felt strange, Hal’Sted treated her more cruelly where others could see them, and she was removed from the few toys her master allowed her. But something in the air felt gentle, and she took a deep breath that filled her with life. When she closed her eyes, she slept soundly.

Other children throughout the galaxy reacted to the feeling, though they were too young to remember it when they grew older. A newborn togruta on Shili; an infant mirialan on Coruscant; a baby of unknown species, already six years old yet a newborn by his people’s standards. They all sighed happily and slept well, unburdened by questions about the gentleness they felt in the galaxy. They would only ever know a Force that flowed more clear and clean and powerful with every passing day.

On Malastare, Maul opened his eyes, rising from his uneasy slumber in his sparse lodgings. He knew two things: His master was dead, and the cloying sense of destiny that had always surrounded him was gone. Fear trembled in his gut—he was well aware he wasn’t fully trained, and that a thousand years’ worth of history now sat on his shoulders. All of eighteen, he wasn’t ready to be the Master of the Sith, barely even understood what the Sith were. But even as the prospect scared him, it also excited him. Maul had never really known freedom. He was thrilled to find out what it meant.

And on Naboo, there was a gungan, who was not Force-sensitive. This didn’t mean the Force had no interest in him; any Jedi would envy the way that fate gently wove its way around the humble gungan, guiding him exactly where he needed to be. But fate was not always kind. And he was not having a good time.

–  
–

Jar Jar Binks was having a rough week.

He’d been dragged through the planet into Theed by his boss at the only job Jar Jar had managed to hold down for more than a month. Theed was a frightening city for him, full of fast speeders and cold-faced humans; there were a lot of opportunities for him to get hurt, or to hurt others with his clumsiness. They were in town to sell gungan handicrafts, and so Jar Jar’s boss could have a word with Naboo’s senator, trying to get some concession or other for gungan exporters.

And then Jar Jar had gotten that senator killed. That _thud_ would haunt his nightmares for a long time to come, he was sure.

Now, he sat in a cramped office tucked away in Theed’s municipal government buildings, while Captain Roos Tarpals chewed him out.

“This is unacceptable, Jar Jar!” the officer bit out in Gunganese. “After the amount of havoc you’ve already caused in Otoh Gunga, now you’ve gone and kill a Naboo boss? We’re lucky they haven’t declared war on us!”

“I know. I’m sorry. It was an accident,” Jar Jar said weakly, eyes kept down. He was less than a generation younger Tarpals, but felt like a child at the moment, his limbs still short from ground out of his tadpole form, his haillu over-long and meddlesome, his skin marred by embarrassing blemishes. The Naboo courts had declared him blameless in Palpatine’s death. He wasn’t sure he agreed.

“I know you’re sorry,” Tarpals said with a heavy sigh, running a hand down his long face and over the tendrils around his mouth. “You always are. But this can’t keep happening. This won’t keep happening.”

“It won’t! I know it won’t, I’ll pay more attention, I’ll watch my feet, I’ll—”

Tarpals held up his hand. “No, you don’t understand. It won’t happen again, because you’re not coming back.” He looked down at Jar Jar, with pity in his eyes. “You’re banned from returning to the gungan cities.”

Jar Jar’s stomach sank, and he felt a shiver go up his spine. “All of them? For how long? Where am I supposed to go?”

“All of them. For...” Tarpals looked to the side, his whiskers shaking with sorrow. “For the foreseeable future. If you can demonstrate that you won’t be causing any more trouble...” He shook his head. “Maybe you can appeal the decision in a few years. Let tempers cool. Grow into your limbs. I put in a good word for you with the Naboo; they’ll help you find a home for a while. That’s all I can do, Jar Jar.” The older gungan reached out, putting a hand on Jar Jar’s shoulder. “Stay safe. This won’t be the last time we meet.”

Then Torpals left, to be replaced by a heavy-set human—the one assigned to this office, who had stepped out to let the two gungans speak. The human shuffled around the too-small gap around their desk, taking a seat. Jar Jar couldn’t read their expression; humans seemed so much less expressive than gungans, in his eyes.

He sat and nodded numbly as the human said something about a ‘boarding school for the disadvantaged’, opportunities to be tutored by Naboo’s best and brightest (the best and brightest _among the humans_ , some corner of Jar Jar’s mind bitterly noted), scholarships for gungan exiles…

He barely heard it, let alone understood it. All he could think about was that a man was dead because of him, and now he may never get to return home.

–  
–

Maul knew what to do in case of his master’s death. It was, after all, very simple: Go to one of the Sith probe droids his master had left with him, present it with some blood, and follow its instructions.

The droid gave him coordinates, and Maul set out on the _Scimitar_. His destination was practically on the other side of the galaxy, a ruin-strewn world deep in the Unknown Regions, its name only remembered by the dead. Maul spent the time monitoring the HoloNet, taking stock of what he knew.

To his surprise, his master didn’t seem to have fallen in some great battle. It was likely the Jedi had discovered Sidious’ identity and slain him, but if so, they did it quietly. So far as the galaxy was concerned, Sheev Palpatine died in a tragic accident, leaving behind only the unfilfilled promise of a great career.

It was obviously a lie. Sith lords did not die in traffic accidents.

Regardless, Maul had to assume that the secrecy of the Sith was compromised. He had felt the death of the previous Sith lord, the surge in Sidious’ power, shortly before his master came to tell him of Plagueis’ demise. Whoever had killed Sidious would likely not be sure if he was master or apprentice, though, and would be vigilant for the other partner. Maul would have to be careful in his movements. It was a shame. He had so looked forward to testing his skills against a Jedi.

On the ruined world, at the location that he found half through the droid’s instructions and half through the guidance of the Force, he found a Sith holocron, in its classic pyramidal shape. It wasn’t the first such device he’d interacted with, Sidious having left him with similar devices to act as tutors while the elder wore the mask of Senator Palpatine. Just on touching it, Maul could tell that this holocron was greater than the others, the information it contained darker and weightier. It was no greater than any other holocron in mass, but it weighed heavy in the Force.

The first layer of the holocron’s seal peeled away easily enough, the ever-churning rage in Maul’s heart thrumming through arcane circuits to lift and open the pyramid. It revealed a flickering red hologram of Sideous, alongside a scroll of complex data. Financial information, Maul judged, for accounts containing an absolutely preposterous amount of money.

“If you are seeing this, my apprentice, then it means I have fallen, and not by your hand,” the hologram said in the rough, crackling voice his master used when hiding his identity. “Most unfortunate. But if you live, then the work can go on. The great plan, the revenge of the Sith, can still be completed.” The hologram gestured toward the data. “You will find here the information on our resources. The holocron contains the pieces of our plan, the outline of our grand design, and knowledge of the powers you will need to complete your training. The pieces are in motion. With but a firm hand to guide them, we can destroy the Jedi, and their Republic. You can be the last lord of the Sith to hide away in the shadows. All you need to do is as you’ve always done: follow my commands.”

Maul… hesitated.

“Or else?” he asked.

The hologram flickered. “Or else what?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Maul rolled the matter over in his mind as he walked back to his ship, thoughts racing with every step, the holocron kept floating over his hand. “You, my master, are dead. The only trace of you left is in this little pyramid. What happens if I don’t follow your plan?”

The hologram’s face darkened, chill emanating from the hovering lump of metal and crystal. “You would throw away a thousand years of planning for your spite? I am offering you the galaxy on a platter. The death of the Republic. The death of the Jedi. Freedom from exile. Power unimaginable. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Why—?”

“Everything I’ve ever wanted,” Maul said softly. “I do want to kill the Jedi, it’s true. I do want power, though I have my suspicions about how much my old master was willing to teach me. I do want to move unhindered by fear or secrecy, to declare that the Sith live to the galaxy. I don’t care about the Republic, but I will happily destroy it if it stands in my way. But you don’t offer me what I want most.”

“And what is that?” the hologram asked with a sneer.

“Freedom,” Maul crooned in answer. “I’m free now, to do what I want. Perhaps I will follow your plans. Or perhaps I will make my own.” His lips pulled back into a fierce grin. “After all. I’m now the Master of the Sith. And you… are an echo of a dead man.”

All the holocron would do was shout futilely as Maul snapped it shut, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder as he slid into the _Tempest_ ’s pilot seat.

He had a galaxy to experience.

And he would need an apprentice.


	3. Watcher Temple

The event came to be known by a few different names. “The Clearing of the Sky,” from the more poetic of the Jedi; “the Pleasantness,” from the less reverent. The most common name, though, was simply “the Great Release”—and if a few padawans snickered and wove the name into innuendos, their masters largely responded with stony faces and feigned ignorance. The younger Jedi didn’t need to know about how the best jokes were shared with pride by their masters behind closed doors.

After two years, the event had largely been forgotten, glossed over in the face of more pressing issues. The bulk of the Jedi Order considered it simply a strange eddy in the Force, perhaps a mark of some fateful event that they would grow to understand in the fullness of time. Patience and restraint were virtues, after all. The Council considered the matter settled unless something new happened. The Jedi wouldn’t go digging into mysteries that didn’t call out for their attention, not when there were more important matters at hand.

Most of the Jedi, anyway.

–

“I considered tracing the timing of the event and triangulating an origin, but no luck. There aren’t enough Jedi scattered around the galaxy to create a reliable map, and even if there were, I don’t think the Force interacts with time and space that way. And if it did, there’s no way the timing standardization would make it trackable, especially with planetary calendars being what they are. I don’t care what the Senate decrees, I don’t think this calendar reform is going to sort that mess out anytime soon. Now—Are you paying attention to me?”

Sifo-Dyas lifted an amused eyebrow. “As well as I can, Master. I’m afraid you may need to slow down a bit for me. I’m not as young as I used to be.” His companion didn’t need to know that he’d been mildly distracted, watching the small waterfall in this chamber of the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

Lene Kostana, Sifo-Dyas’ former teacher and lifelong confidant, gave him a sour look, emphasizing the faint sagging of her cool purple skin as wrinkles pulled taut around her eyes. “Oh, don’t go talking to me about aging. You haven’t needed to get a knee replaced yet.”

“That’s because I never made a habit of abusing my joints as much as you have. Besides, we both know your people age slower than mine.”

The altiri dipped her head in a grudging concession. “I suppose you are only human, as the saying goes.” Her expression softened to a more genuine smile, and she reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. “I missed you, Sifo.”

He lifted an eyebrow, though he reached up to clasp her hand warmly. “I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“We both know that isn’t true,” Lene answered softly.

Sifo-Dyas had to admit that she was right. Ever since his old friend Dooku left the Order, his visions had only grown stronger, stranger, and crueler. They tormented him in his sleep, interrupted him at meals, distracted him during Council meetings. His performance in his duties was suffering. It seemed inevitable that he would eventually be politely but firmly removed from his position, even before he started tentatively floating the idea of creating an army.

And then the Release came. And he was freed. Mostly. He was at least able to concentrate more clearly on the present moment.

He’d take it.

“The point I was trying to make,” Lene said, lifting the datapad in her hands again, “is that I’m running short on leads to investigate if we want to figure out what happened. Has the GRIC made any progress?”

“The GRIC, I’m afraid, has rather lost the plot,” Sifo-Dyas said lightly. The acronym stood for “Great Release Investigation Council”, a formal-sounding title for an informal association of scholars, mystery-seekers, and unorthodox Jedi who had worked together to study the Great Release despite the general apathy of the majority of the Order. By virtue of his position on the Council, and no one else wanting the job, Sifo-Dyas found himself as the group’s nominal leader. “Given the lack of information, they’ve turned their attention more to learning esoteric knowledge from one another than to seeing what made the Force shift so suddenly.”

As a Councilor, he should probably be concerned about this development. The GRIC encompassed many Jedi who some saw as renegades, troublemakers, and even outright heretics. Giving them an avenue to mingle and encourage one another, and ensnare more conventional Jedi in their ways, was dangerous. But as a man who had himself chafed against Jedi conformity, Sifo-Dyas couldn’t help but think that a little heterodoxy could do the Order some good.

Lene sighed, setting her datapad aside. “Well, that just leaves delving into events that occurred around the same time, which isn’t terribly efficient. It turns out, tens of thousands of inhabited systems generate a lot of news in a day, and there’s no guarantee that the cause would even be something that appears in Republic information channels. I could have been something out in Wild Space, or Hutt Space, or in the Unknown Regions.” She rubbed her eyes, and ran a hand through her white hair. “The Great Release may remain a mystery.”

“Mmm. Unfortunate. I’ll have to decide whether or not to tell the GRIC. I’d hate to ruin their fun,” Sifo-Dyas said, voice drifting off as his thoughts wandered.

“You’re fading out on me again, Sifo,” Lene said lightly. “Credit for your thoughts?”

The seer answered with a sigh. “At this point, the Release and its cause don’t bother me so much. What troubles me more is…” He hesitated, marshalling his thoughts. “Yoda and I discussed it, the day it happened. I described it like the first glimpse of the sun after a long rain. And his answer was that he hadn’t even known it was raining. What worries me is, if the Force could cloud up once without our noticing, what prevents it from happening again? How can we be more aware in the future?”

“That seems like something you’d know more about,” Lene answered, looking thoughtful. “Most of us try to keep our minds on the present. The Force is loud enough on a planet like Coruscant without letting in the noise of the future as well.”

“Yes, it is...” Sifo-Dyas said, fingers working at a lock of his hair as he thought.

“That sounds like you have an idea.”

“Maybe the seed of one. I’ll think on it more. For now, I think it’s about time we got something to eat.”

Lene’s eyes lit up. “An excellent idea, my former padawan.”

Sifo-Dyas chuckled as he helped her to her feet, following a half-step behind her. However old he got and however prestigious a position he took in the Order, some things just didn’t change. Lena Kostana would always be eager for a meal, and he’d always follow just in her wing.

–  
\--

“Thank you so much for being here, Jar Jar,” Padmé Naberrie said, smiling brightly at him via the mirror, pale cheeks still round with youth squishing with the expression. She looked strange with the preliminary makeup on, the foundation flattening out the distinctive features that helped Jar Jar identify his friend in a crowd of similar-looking humans.

Jar Jar’s line of sight was quickly broken by the attendant moving around to adjust something else in the young girl’s hair. He stepped around to her other side. “Issa—” He grimaced. “ _It is_ my pleasure, Padmé. Not many gungans get to attend the crowning of a princess.”

In two years of study, Jar Jar’s skill with Naboo Standard Basic had grown quite a bit. But sometimes, bits of the Gungan Basic dialect he’d learned as a tadpole slipped in, or even elements of outright Gunganese. His speech was a work in progress. He’d been helped along quite a bit by Padmé.

“It’s not a crowning, exactly,” Padmé said. “It’s an investiture of authority, using a ceremonial title—”

“—A ceremonial title retained as a reminder of Naboo’s darker days,” Jar Jar said with a grin. “I did pay attention in class.” He went to stand at Padmé’s side, only for the attendant to shoo him out of the way as they came back over. Disgruntled, he shifted around to the girl’s other side. Hair always seemed like more trouble than it was worth, and his understanding was that the Naboo were even more fussy about it than the average human culture.

Padmé smiled at him, eyes warm, and seemed about to say something when the attendant spun her around and started on her makeup, preventing her from speaking. A delicate hand reached out and took his, and he held it carefully (human hands were so small, the too-many fingers so thin, the skin so dry).

It had been galling, at first, to be taught by a little girl. Padmé was ten years old when she met Jar Jar, a volunteer at the Gungan Integration Program, helping their regular teachers. She’d tutored him on how to read aurebesh, and in the workings of government, and in science and technology and music and dance. Jar Jar was six years older than her, and he still felt the difference whenever they stood next to each other, or whenever she burst into a wide smile. But the Naboo prided themselves in their youth culture, in how they drew out and fostered the talents of gifted children, and Padmé was nothing if not gifted. As evidenced by how now, at twelve years old, Padmé was being crowned the Princess of Theed.

‘Princess’. On most worlds, her title would be more akin to “mayor”. It still boggled his mind that such a small creature had been elected to such a grand title. She wasn’t the youngest elected princess in the city’s history, but it was a thin margin. There was already talk of her making a run for queen.

“How do you feel? Are you nervous?” Jar Jar asked as the makeup artist finished, leaving them a few minutes before she needed to head out. He was getting better at reading human expressions, but was still no expert, and Padmé had an excellent sabacc face.

She thought for a moment before answering. “Not about the ceremony. I’ve rehearsed so much, I could do it in my sleep. About being princess… A little, yes. I know what I want to do for the people of Theed, but I don’t know if I have the skills for it, or if I’m the best one for the job.”

“The people seemed to think so,” Jar Jar said, giving her a reassuring grin. “And I think they’re right. I don’t know anyone smarter than you. Mesa thinken yousa will do a bombad job!” The slip into his old dialect made Padmé smile despite herself; human children seemed to enjoy it, even if it made adults bristle. He helped the girl stand from the chair and do a quick inspection of her dress to make sure no lint or stray makeup had fallen on it.

“Princess?” a coordinator called from the door. “We’re ready for you.”

Standing straight, Padmé gave Jar Jar’s hand one last squeeze, before stepping out to take her place in the ceremony. Jar Jar followed, only tripping over his feet once on his way to his reserved seating. Given the size of the crowd, he considered that a personal best.

–

Jar Jar was at the end of a row next to one of the other gungans in his program. There were fifteen of them total, of ages ranging from early adolescence to seniority. The woman next to Jar Jar was a young adult a few years older than him, Plansa Modbom. A heavy-set Ankura, she had mottled green skin, a short bill, and a scowl on her face. Humans sometimes had trouble believing that the Ankura were the same species as lanky Otolla gungans like Jar Jar; privately, he sometimes agreed.

“You don’t look happy,” Jar Jar noted quietly, eyeing his classmate.

“I’m rarely happy, Binks,” she answered in Gunganese. Members of the class were encouraged to speak Basic in their normal lives to keep up their skills, an instruction that Jar Jar took up with enthusiasm and Plansa largely ignored. “It’s hot out, I haven’t spent enough time in water, and I’m being forced to watch this farce.”

“It’s not that different from when a new boss gets appointed,” Jar Jar answered, slipping into his native tongue as well. “We have our own big ceremonies too.”

“We don’t put literal children on our bosses’ thrones, and then pretend they have the power.”

At Jar Jar’s puzzled look, Plansa sighed and leaned over to point to the human officials flanking Padmé as she recited her oath of office. “Look at them. The wrinkly faces and white hair mean that they’re old. They’re the people who run the day-to-day business in the city. They were here long before the last princess, they’ll be here long after this one. And they’re the ones who make the real decisions. The child is just a puppet.”

Jar Jar frowned, recalling his civics lessons. “The princess does have a lot of power. She’s the city’s executive; she has her own balance with the City Council, establishes and enforces policies, and appoints major officials. She has limits on her power, but she’s not a puppet.”

“Yes, those her powers on flimsi,” Plansa answered, rolling her eyes. “But who do you think tells her what to do? Which decisions to make? What officials to appoint? She’s twelve years old and her term is two years, how can she possibly have had time to fully master the position?” She shook her head. “The princess’ job is to put a nice face on the powers that be so that no one notices who’s pulling the puppet strings.”

“I… maybe,” Jar Jar said uneasily. “But Padmé is special. She’ll see through whatever their plans are and make her own decisions.”

Plansa’s answering look was almost pitying. “I doubt it. She’s a smart child, but just a child. And if she thinks that she’ll escape their influence, then she’s deceiving herself. Don’t be deceived along with her.”

The gungan on Plansa’s opposite side elbowed her and hissed for her to be quiet. Folding her arms, the woman grumped back into her seat, leaving Jar Jar to stew with his thoughts.

Padmé finished taking her oath and turned to beam out at the crowd. Jar Jar joined the polite applause. When she shot a look at him, he gave her a smile that didn’t match his thoughts.

–  
–

There was always something unsettling about having someone violate one’s home without one’s knowledge. Maul’s master had gone through a great deal of effort to impress on him the importance of psychological warfare, and putting enemies off their stride from the jump. Thus, sneaking into someone’s home and lurking in the places where they wanted to relax was a favorite intimidation tactic of his.

However, it did sometimes result in quite a lot of waiting around. Which was why Maul had his feet kicked up on the desk, reading a holobook, when Count Dooku of Serenno found him in the royal study of Castle Serenno.

The old human jolted to a stop from stepping through the doorway, staring at the shadowy figure illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the book. “What the—?!”

Maul grinned, letting his teeth shine in the glow, before flicking the book off, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint light from the doorway that glinted off his yellow eyes (and if that left him rather night-blind after staring into the glowing book, well, the count didn’t need to know that). “Greetings, Count Dooku. Or should it be Master Dooku? What is the proper styling for a retired Jedi master?”

A lightsaber flicked into Dooku’s hand, blue light springing from a curved hilt to point at Maul. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve made a grave mistake.”

Maul rolled his eyes and let his presence in the Force unfurl. Dooku hesitated at the wave of cold as Maul reached out and flicked on the lights to the office with a thought. All the contrasting lighting was starting to hurt the zabrak’s eyes. “You may not know who I am, but I know you, Dooku. I know how you turned your back on the Jedi, how you doubted your purpose for years before, how you struggled to cling to their precious light even as you heard the call of the darkness.” He gestured vaguely at the lightsaber. “I’m surprised that’s still blue. You haven’t gotten around to bleeding the crystal yet?”

“To… what?” Dooku’s brow furrowed, and the tip of the saber dipped a few centimeters. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Unfortunate. I suppose that’s not something the Jedi would teach you.” Maul picked up the lightsaber he had left lying on the desk, letting one of its red blades spring forth from its emitter. “They wouldn’t show you how to find a color that somewhat better matches your… new aesthetic.”

Dooku stared at the red lightsaber, the stern wrinkles of his face falling into astonishment. “You’re a Sith,” he breathed out.

“The one and only,” Maul said with a smirk. “Which is rather the problem.” He flicked the saber off and slipped his boots from the desk, sitting up straight. “Please, sit. I’m just here to talk.”

Dooku scowled at Maul for a few moments before grudgingly deactivating his lightsaber and taking one of the seats meant for guests. “That’s my chair, I’ll have you know.”

“At this point, trading places would just be awkward, now wouldn’t it?” Maul laced his fingers together, eyeing the old human. “You don’t seem surprised to learn that the Sith live.”

“Many among the Jedi suspected. Including a friend of mine. She was certain you would return, that the Jedi hadn’t broken the line of Darth Bane.” Dooku frowned. “There are always supposed to be two. Yet, you said you’re the one and only.”

“There were two,” Maul said with a nod. “Myself and my master. Then one.” He gestured to himself. “Then two. Then one again. Then two. Then one. It’s grown rather tiresome.” Maul had, in fact, lost three apprentices in the two years since his master’s death, but Dooku didn’t need to know that. And Darth Malice hardly counted, having only lasted two weeks.

“Your apprentices attempted to usurp you?” Dooku asked, raising an imperious black eyebrow.

“They couldn’t keep up with me.” Maul shook his head ruefully. “I tried to do as my master did, raising uninitiated students to only ever know the power of the Dark Side, but I haven’t had the luxury of letting them stay safe. And so they perish before their time.”

“My sympathies for your losses,” Dooku said, leaning back and crossing his legs. Even on the wrong side of the desk, the man was good at commanding a room. “Are you seeking my advice on keeping apprentices alive? I managed to avoid losing either of mine, despite some of their best attempts.”

Maul waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I’m sure the coddling ways of the Jedi kept them nice and safe. Sadly, the demands of Sith training are a bit more rigorous. Fortunately, I think I’ve figured out the trick. I need an apprentice who already has some training. Some experience. Whose learning simply needs to be tweaked, rather than starting from scratch.”

“You mean me.”

“I mean you.”

Dooku’s expression of sour skepticism spoke volumes. “You would be my master? You’re just a child.”

The zabrak bristled. “I’m twenty standard years old.”

“Like I said. A child.”

“I am Master of the Sith.” A black-tattooed lip curled up over yellow teeth in a sneer. “You play in the darkness, you dabble with it, you think yourself an iconoclast for daring to step your toe outside of the lines painted on the ground for you by the Jedi. What I’m offering you is true power, true knowledge. The wisdom and lore of the Sith, secrets lost to the light for a thousand years or more. Secrets that I know you coveted as a Jedi.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed, and his fingers came up to run through his grey beard. “I will admit, I am curious about what knowledge you have. Including all of this information about me. How did you come by it?”

“...The Sith have their ways,” Maul said with a scowl to mask his unease. He really did not want to get into the topic of his late master’s obnoxious holocron.

“Hmm. You said your master died. Not that you killed them. If you had planned to do so, you would have found your next apprentice already. And I doubt someone so young as you would be able to slay a Sith lord in their prime. No, someone or something else killed your master. And now you’re stumbling blind, trying to find the way forward. And so you come to me. Not so that you can teach me, but so I can teach you.”

A tense silence filled the room. Maul made little effort to hide the hate and rage rolling off of him, hoping that it would cover up the more-hidden embarrassment he felt. Was Dooku right? Had he come here seeking a new master?

No. No, Maul was the lord of the Sith, and he refused to let an old man make a fool out of him. He would never bow to another, ever again.

Instead, he jerked to his feet, his seat tumbling to the ground behind him, taking petty satisfaction at the flash of offense in Dooku’s eyes at the poor treatment of the count’s furniture. Maul picked up his lightsaber again, pointing it at the fallen Jedi without lighting it. “I make this offer only once, Count. Swear allegiance to me and learn the ways of the Sith, or sit here in your sad little castle stewing in your own ignorance for the few days you have left.”

Dooku slowly and deliberately stood from his seat, hands well away from his own lightsaber, as he stepped over to a cabinet and poured himself a stiff drink. “No, I don’t think I will take you up on that offer. However, should you ever overcome your ego enough to realize you need instruction and guidance, do feel free to return. The vigor of youth would do a great deal to liven up this… ‘sad little castle’, as you call it.”

“Fine. Have it your way.” With a stormy scowl, the Sith started toward the door, half considering trashing something with his lightsaber on the way out just to make a point.

“Just a moment,” Dooku said. “You know, I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

The Master of the Sith froze, just for a moment, and gave Dooku a sickly yellow glare. “Maul. Darth Maul.” And with that, he continued out in a billow of black cloak.

He didn’t need some washed-up ex-Jedi. He could find his own apprentice. One untainted by Jedi weakness. One who wasn’t old enough to be Maul’s grandfather.

No one would command Darth Maul again.

–

Dooku watched the young man go, savoring a sip of his brandy. “Darth Maul,” he said to himself, rolling the name over in his mind. He shook his head. “And here I thought accounts of the Sith’s… dramatic flair were over-exaggerated.” If that’s what the Sith were like in person, then perhaps he did not, in fact, want to model his new practice of the Force after theirs. No, he could do much better than the example set by a temperamental brat.

The count looked around his study, mercifully free of lightsaber-scores; he’d been rather worried he’d have to get into a fight with the young man. As Dooku righted his chair and tutted at the scratches on it, he thought more.

First, he would have to learn more about this ‘bleeding’ Maul had mentioned. Dooku was no expert on kyber crystals, but anything that could affect the efficacy of his weapon was of keen interest to him.

Second… He hadn’t been wrong about livening up the castle. Maybe it was time for some young blood. His old apprentice Rael Aveross had turned him down in no uncertain terms, but… Well. There were other possibilities, lurking out there in the darkness. The Jedi believed that the Force would provide. But the Dark Side did not favor such passivity. If he wanted to share what he had learned, he would have to go out and find students himself.

–  
–

Sifo-Dyas really should have been paying closer attention to the Council meeting, but it was difficult for him to focus. Thoughts of his plans flitted through his mind instead, like the aircars of Coruscant outside the chamber window. The trafic was loud enough to be heard even through thick layers of duracrete and transparisteel, just as the thoughts and emotions of a trillion sapients could filter through even the aura of calm and serenity the Jedi carefully maintained around their Temple.

“Master? Master Sifo-Dyas,” a voice said, and his attention snapped back to the present. Mace Windu was giving him a hard look; Sifo-Dyas wasn’t sure if it was a conscious scowl, or if the man’s face just looked like that. Windu glanced at the datapad that held the agenda for the meeting. “You wanted to address the Council?”

“Yes, I did.” Sifo-Dyas leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes flickering over the gathered masters. Some had attained their positions during his time on the Council; others had been part of the august body for centuries before he was born. Nominally, ten of the twelve councilors were equals, with only Windu and Yoda bearing special responsibilities. In practice, seniority meant a great deal to the Jedi, and Sifo-Dyas was in the younger half of those in the room.

He took a deep breath, and said, “I want to speak about the Great Release.”

There were some scattered sighs and groans among the other councilors. Even Piell grumbled, “Again?” just a little too loudly under his breath, pointed ears drooping and scowling face pulling around his scarred eye.

Sifo-Dyas deserved that, he supposed. “I’m not proposing another attempt to find the source of the phenomenon,” he said, which was greeted with cautiously relieved expressions. “Rather, I want to discuss that such a phenomenon could have occurred in the first place, and what we intend to do about it.”

“You may need to clarify a bit,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said, bushy eyebrows furrowed as fingers ran over his white mustache. “That is a rather broad topic, and sounds little different han searching for the source.”

“Those who were awake to sense the moment described it as though clouds over the Force had started to clear, giving us a glimpse of the sun. Hence the sobriquet ‘the Clearing of the Skies’ that some favor, yes? Well, what troubles me right now is that the Force was able to grow clouded in the first place—moreso, that it did so without our noticing.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve discussed that,” Adi Gallia said, leaning forward, her tendrils brushing her shoulders. “We’re all concerned about how we didn’t even notice the trouble until it was on its way out.” At Oppo Rancisis’ pointed cough, she grimaced and corrected, “Some of us are concerned, anyway.”

Rancisis ran a finger through his flowing beard as he adjusted the coils of his serpentine body. “I maintain there is nothing to be concerned about. There was a disturbance, then it vanished. The Force tended to itself over time. There’s a lesson there for the Order.” 

A few heads bobbed in agreement at that assessment. Sifo-Dyas and Gallia shared a quick look; of all the Councilors, they were the least reassured by Rancisis’ complacency.

“Retreading old ground, you said you were not, Sifo-Dyas,” Yoda said, the ancient grandmaster peering across the chamber at the human. “Something to propose, you have?”

“I do, Master,” Sifo-Dyas answered. He had no more interest in retreading the supposed lesson the Release had for them than any of the other councilors. “I would suggest that the reason we couldn’t sense the malaise over the Force is for the same reason that a person staring intently at a tree’s trunk can’t see a forest.” He gestured out the window. “The temple is located on the most populous planet in the galaxy, at the heart of the Core Worlds, surrounded on all sides by several more of the galaxy’s most populous worlds. The Force arises from living things, particularly sentient beings, and we’re right in the heart of it.”

Yaddle’s eyesbrows rose as she adjusted her position in her too-large seat. “You think that we didn’t notice the clouding of the Force, because we were in the middle of the cloud.” It wasn’t a question. When Sifo-Dyas first spoke to Yaddle, he’d been surprised that she didn’t share Yoda’s unique syntax. He’d earned a whack to the shins and a sharp-tongued lesson about stereotyping for his observation.

“That’s right,” he said with a nod. “Our presence on Coruscant gives the Order many benefits, but I do think that we’re too enmeshed in the maelstrom of the Force to get a good understanding of its general health. We need to be able to pull back, look at the Force from afar, see the whole of how it shapes the galaxy rather than at individual threads.”

Eeth Koth raised an eyebrow, lacing fingers under a tattooed chin. “How do you propose we do that? We can’t very well move the Temple.”

“Of course not. As I said, our position offers many advantages. But...” Sifo-Dyas hesitated. Nothing he’d said so far was terribly controversial, but this next part… “I feel like it might serve us well to establish a second temple, further away from the tumult of the Core.”

The proposal was met with deafening silence, then immediate uproar.

“You can’t—”

“—Very good reasons why—”

“—Just because of your paranoid—”

“Masters!” Windu’s voice cut through the Council chamber, the man’s face somehow even more stern than before. “You are Jedi! Act like it!”

The assembled masters accepted the rebuke with varying degrees of humility, the various feelings of upset still simmering in the air. Sifo-Dyas kept his face carefully impassive, however much he was tempted to roll his eyes at his unruly colleagues.

Saesee Tiin cleared his throat, and at Windu’s gesture for him to go ahead, he said levelly, “Master Sifo-Dyas, you know full well why the Jedi have focused our efforts on one central temple. The number of Jedi is small enough in the modern day that it wouldn’t do to have us scattered throughout the galaxy. Further, such outlying temples leave room open for...” He hesitated, a hand running along one of his horns. “Unseemly practices.”

Sifo-Dyas nodded, carefully biting back any witty retorts he might have about what practices the old Jedi found ‘unseemly’. “I’ve done my research, Master Tiin. I’m well aware of the past risks.” The Jedi had once maintained small satellite temples throughout the galaxy, but there had been incidents over the centuries—temples drifting away from the Code as enforced by the center of the Order, whole sects of Jedi falling to the Dark Side, temples falling to the Jedi’s enemies before help could arrive. Combined with the steady decline in the Jedi population over the years of relative peace, when more and more families decided not to cede their children to the Order, consolidating the Jedi had made sense. 

And yet… “Times have changed since the last outlying temple was abandoned,” he continued. “It’s been over five hundred years. More of the galaxy is known to the Republic. Hyperdrives are faster, hyperlanes more developed, communications more stable and secure. I believe that we can establish this second temple—a small one, only a few dozen volunteer Jedi with particularly keen senses, easily rotated out—and maintain regular communication with Coruscant. The second temple would have the benefits of distance from the noise of the Core, without the isolation that has led to trouble in the past.”

It was also long overdue for the Jedi to go forth into the galaxy again and actually be a part of it, but such a thought would have to live inside Sifo-Dyas’ head for the moment. Patience and small steps were necessary for the moment. The Council as a whole believed in a doctrine of passivity save when the Republic called for aid, and he couldn’t change that in a day.

Several of the councilors still seemed skeptical. Adi Gallia was nodding along with him, as were Yaddle and Yarael Poof. Yoda and Windu, as ever, were unreadable.

Plo Koon was also unreadable, eyes hidden behind the filters that kept him safe in Coruscant’s human-friendly atmosphere. He sat back in his seat and surprised Sifo-Dyas by asking, “Did you have a location in mind for this temple? Somewhere on the Outer Rim?”

“Not precisely,” Sifo-Dyas answered, impressed that Plo Koon was already this far into the practicalities of the matter while other councilors were caught up on the basic idea. “I’ve been analyzing star charts, and came upon mention of an unusual tangle of hyperspace routes near Rishi. Routes that lead to Companion Aurek, the nearest of the dwarf galaxies that orbit our own.”

“Aurek is little-explored,” Poof noted, small head bobbing on his long neck. “Even the hutts have little presence that far outside of Republic space. It can be dangerous out there in the unknown, but if one wanted isolation from the galaxy, that would be the place to find it.”

“Exactly.” Sifo-Dyas turned his gaze on the Council as a whole again. “I would like permission to venture out to Companion Aurek and find a place for a new temple, from which to monitor the galaxy and the Force from a position of relative isolation. I will send my recommended site back to the Order, and work with whatever local government there may be to secure a fair agreement for their land.”

“I take it you would want to remain at this satellite temple, to guide the group and contribute to the watch,” Windu noted. At Sifo-Dyas’ nod, he continued, “Do you think you would be able to do so and keep up your duties as a Councilor?”

Sifo-Dyas wanted to say yes. He’d worked so hard for so many years to achieve his position, to help the Order however he could, to push for greater involvement in the galaxy’s affairs. But he couldn’t ignore reality, nor the call of the Force. “No. If we accepted the proposal, I would step down from my seat. It is, after all, for the good of the Order.”

That struck a chord with some of the other councilors, though whether they were impressed by Sifo-Dyas’ sacrifice, or just wanted an excuse to not have to deal with him anymore, he couldn’t say. When the vote was held, only Oppo Rancisis and Saesee Tiin opposed the mission.

The Council moved on to its next agenda item—in this case, Sifo-Dyas’ replacement on the Council, and he did his level best to offer his insight. But if it had been difficult to focus before, it was nigh impossible now as he pondered the path that lay in front of him.

–  
–

Jar Jar Binks waited patiently in line, fiddling with the ceramic plate in his hands. After a long day of ceremonies and celebrations, he was famished, and the temptation was strong to just snag one of the appetizers with his tongue. Just to tide him over until he got to the front of the buffet line. But the Naboo found that rude (and unsanitary), and Jar Jar didn’t have the best aim anyway. And so, he restrained himself.

The plate slipped from his hands, and shattered as it hit the ground, making a number of people jump in surprise and bringing the murmur of conversation to a temporary halt. Jar Jar sighed and stepped out of his spot in line to go find a custodial droid. So much for dinner.

His haillu burned with embarrassment as he directed the droid. With another sigh, he sank down at a table and looked around at the pavillion, resigned to wait until the line was shorter and he thus had less opportunity for disaster. The reception was set up in one of Theed’s city squares, a number of small tables arranged under a canopy to keep the sun off the guests. A number of people—mostly human Naboo, with a few off-world visitors and his class of gungans—milled about and mingled, making small talk. He could just make out Padmé’s parents, who were surrounded by people offering well-wishes. With the girl’s promising political career, it was likely that they wouldn’t be congratulated for her next election—candidates for queen maintained secret identities, after all.

Once, he might have spent his time going out into the crowd, trying to make friends. He’d always been an outgoing gungan. But that was before he was stranded in Theed and became self conscious about his appearance, and his movement, and his speech. Now… now it was easier not to approach humans. They never seemed to know what to do with an awkward gungan guest.

Jar Jar heard someone come up behind him, and when he turned, he was surprised to see the new princess herself, offering a warm smile and a two plates heaped with food as she sat down. She said, “I saw what happened, so I got you a new plate.”

“Thanks, Padmé,” he said with feeling, turning to dig into his food. “Mesa surprised yousa not surrounded by people. Disa yous big party.” Distracted by food, it was so, so easy for Jar Jar to slip back into Gungan Basic. He didn’t even notice until he saw Padmé cover her mouth, in that polite way she did when she heard the dialect. Jar Jar knew she wasn’t laughing at him, that she wasn’t mocking his speech.

Well, his head knew it. His heart was more skeptical.

“My friends are giving me a few moments to breathe and eat,” she said, starting into her own food with gusto. Naboo food was always exciting for Jar Jar, the familiar fish, vegetables, and tubers of home mixed with off-world spices and cooking methods to create whole new flavors. Though he did sometimes miss the food he’d grown up with, the herbs and flavorings that didn’t fit human palates and thus weren’t grown for sale in Theed’s markets.

Sadly, the moment of peace couldn’t last. No sooner was Padmé’s plate empty than she was swept away by smiling politicos and functionaries with ambiguous jobs, and Jar Jar was left alone with his plate.

He was contemplating going into line for seconds when a trio of humans swooped down on his table, claiming empty seats. Jar Jar wasn’t good at reading human ages, but he guessed that these were adolescents, a litte older than Padmé and a few years younger than him. They seemed to take their cues from the pale, freckled boy with light orange hair, who offered Jar Jar a disarming grin. “So you’re the new princess’ gungan friend, are you?”

Jar Jar frowned at the boy. “Yes, Padmé is mesa pa—uh, Padmé is my friend.”

“Well, isn’t that something!” The boy grinned across Jar Jar to his friend, a tanned blonde girl who kept adjusting the glittering choker on her neck. “Isn’t that something, Ulom?” He turned back to Jar Jar before Ulom could answer, and offered a hand. “Ian Lago. My father works in the palace.” He said this last bit with pride, as though he were responsible for his father’s achievements.

“Jar Jar Binks,” the gungan said, shaking the boy’s small too-easily-broken hand carefully. “I’m in the Gungan Integration Program.”

“I heard about that!” Ulom said with a glittering smile. “That’s where poor, abandoned gungans come get a proper education, right?”

“That’s right!” Ian answered chipperly. “I heard that the princess volunteers there. That must be how she met our friend Jar Jar, huh?”

“How long have you been in the city?” asked the last member of the group, a younger girl with light brown skin, messy brown hair, and wide eyes. Her words lacked the strange edge in Ian and Ulom’s voices.

“Two years now,” Jar Jar answered her distractedly, eyes flicking back and forth between the other two children. The way they were grinning at each other and the lilt in their voices made him think that there was a joke here that he wasn’t in on, and that made him uncomfortable.

“What happened?” the girl asked with excitement.

When Jar Jar hesitated, Ian leaned in again. “Arani! You can’t ask things like that. Everyone knows that the GIPs are here because they have nowhere else to go—because they’re in poverty, or because they’re criminals, or because of even worse reasons. Who knows what wounds you might be opening for poor Jar Jar here!” If he was concerned about hurting Jar Jar’s feelings, he sure didn’t sound like it.

Ulom feigned checking her nails as she sat back against the table. “My father says that the gungans who come in on the program should be grateful for Naboo’s largesse. That we could better spend those resources helping our own people.”

“That doesn’t sound right...” Arani said with a frown, looking back and forth between her friends.

“I… think I should go,” Jar Jar said uneasily, starting to rise from his seat. Whatever was happening here, getting into a conflict with the children of nobility at an official function didn’t seem wise.

“Oh come on!” Ian said, grabbing Jar Jar’s sleeve. “We’re just goofing around! Listen, we’re glad you’re here. Everyone knows the princess is going to do great things, and we just want to find out about her friend!” Ulom giggled at that, for reasons Jar Jar couldn’t comprehend.

He frowned at the boy as he carefully retook his seat and chose his words with care. “I’m just… a gungan. I like to read, and follow the HoloNet.” He didn’t mention that he prefered those activities because they had the least risk of causing a disaster. “I’ve learned a lot with Padmé’s help. She’s really young, but she’s smart. She’ll be a bomba—a great princess.”

“Hey, no need to change how you talk for us!” Ulom said with a grin. “Yousa cansa talk likin’ disa if you be wantin’ to!”

Jar Jar frowned at the girl as Arani hissed, “Ulom! That’s not nice!”

“What?” Ulom answered. “Mesa just be speakin’ like hesa be used to!”

“Yous grammar is muy terrible,” Jar Jar cut in flatly. “Yousa maken a messen of mesa dialect. Maybe yousa should study keeclumbsee—sorry, yousa not know much, dat means ‘manners’—instead of spaken like an eopie’s backside.”

Ian snickered at that, which Ulom met with a scowl. “How rude!” she spat, and jerked to her feet. “I don’t have to listen to this, my grandfather is the Chief Architect! You’re just the princess’ pet savage!”

“Then maybe he should work on building a better granddaughter,” Jar Jar answered, switching right back to Standard Basic and giving the girl a hard look.

Ian outright laughed then, and Ulom’s face screwed up in anger before she grabbed the boy by the collar and dragged him off, shouting, “Come on, Arani!” over her shoulder.

Arani hesitantly got to her feet, wringing her hands and not quite meeting Jar Jar’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what got into them, you’re usually so nice—”

Jar Jar sighed and smiled gently at her. “It happens. Just… maybe get better friends.”

“I’ll… Yeah. I’ll consider that.” Arani sighed and gave Jar Jar a small bow before wobbling off, biting her lip thoughtfully.

Jar Jar looked down at his empty plate, then shook his head and stood to go drop it off at the dish-washing station for the droids to handle. He wasn’t very hungry anymore.

–  
–

“He called me a child!”

“Oh dear.”

“He dared to offer to teach me. Me! The Master of the Sith!”

“How troubling.”

“I can’t believe you even considered recruiting that decrepit old fathier’s-ass of a man!”

“Indeed.”

Maul whipped around to glare at the small hologram of his late master. “Are you even listening to me?”

The mini-Sidious didn’t open his eyes; he seemed to be meditating. “Of course. Tell me, if you had to name a dangerous creature that lived on Umbara, what would be the first thing that came to mind?”

Maul narrowed his eyes, jarred out of his train of thought and trying to suss out whatever lesson the holocron was trying to teach him. “A vixus. It’s a stationary creature that grabs prey with its tendrils and drags them toward its maw. Similar to a sarlacc, though much smaller.”

“I see… K-S-I-S?”

“X-U-S.”

“Damn. It doesn’t fit.”

Maul’s eyes grew wide with realization, then narrow with fury, and his anger concentrated to a blue-hot flame. Monitors on the _Tempest_ flickered at the energy surge. “...Are you doing a kriffing crossword puzzle?”

Holo-Sidious opened one eye to peer at the zabrak disdainfully. “And why not? I must find something to pass the time. I’m a duplicate of the mind of the greatest Sith lord since Darth Bane, and you use me solely to keep track of your passwords—and as a target for your tantrums when things don’t go your way.”

“Going to see Dooku was your idea. I saw the files. You were going to take him on as an apprentice yourself if I died!”

“Yes. As I said, I am—was—one of the greatest Sith lords in existence.” The holocron ignored Maul’s scoff. “I have a great deal to teach Dooku, to lead him away from the binding dogma of the Jedi and into the enlightenment of the Dark Side. You, meanwhile, are a barely-trained brat who refuses to acknowledge that he needs more education. More teaching. More patience.”

“What I need is an army,” Maul answered, pacing. The _Tempest_ was excellent for traveling the galaxy stealthy, but not much else. There wasn’t enough space for him to properly move, and more than once, he’d found himself getting rather claustrophobic on the craft. If he didn’t need to lie low so badly… “An army,” he repeated. “Students. An empire to rule, forces to fight the Jedi.”

“As I said, patience,” Holo-Sidious said with a sigh. Both eyes were open now, though for all Maul knew, he was still working on his crossword. “Even with your negligence toward my plans, wheels are in motion. The hives of Geonosis churn out more battle droids every day, bought up by the great corporate conglomerates of the galaxy. More and more species turn against the Republic.” He tilted his head, as though listening to something. “Even now, the Republic have sent a force to oppose the warlords of Kalee in their invasion of Tovarskl. The kaleesh are canny and brutal warriors. Once hatred of the Republic and the Jedi have set in, they will be great assets for our cause.”

Maul froze, staring out a transparisteel window at the flickering darkness of deep space. “...Jedi. There are Jedi opposing these warlords?”

“Oh yes,” Holo-Sidious said. “It will be quite a tragedy for them, if all goes as I have foreseen. The kaleesh are fighting a great war of destruction against the yam’rii, it is true, but it was in fact the yam’rii that sparked the war by invading and enslaving their neighbors. Not that the Republic will see that in time. No, they will destroy the kaleesh forces, restrict them to their homeworld, impose sanctions on them… all for having the temerity to defend themselves.” His lips curled into a smug smile. “Exactly the kind of outcome one would expect of Jedi arrogance.”

Maul was only barely listening. “Jedi. There are Jedi there. On Tovarskl, you said?”

“...Yes.” The holocron frowned, peering at Maul. “If you have patience, you will have your own allies from the ashes of Kalee.”

“Or. Or, I can have an army now. An army of warlords who hate the Jedi.” Maul strode the few steps to the cockpit, setting a new course; the _Tempest_ slipped into hyperspace with a shudder.

“Have you not heard anything I said? You will have your army, you just need to _wait_.”

“I’m sick of waiting!” Maul snapped back. “I’ve waited for two years! For my whole life! I will travel to Tovarskl. I will take command of these kalee. I will slaughter the Republic forces they brought. And I will finally, finally hunt down Jedi for myself.”

“You risk exposing your existence to the Republic for a chance at challenging Jedi face to face?” The holocron’s voice was incredulous.

“I do,” Maul answered as he started pulling up information form Sidious’ files on the kaleesh and their war. “I told you, I will act as I see fit. And I see fit now. Who knows? Maybe there will be a worthy apprentice among these kalee.”

Holo-Sidious sighed and closed his eyes again, shaking his head in dismay. If he returned to his crossword puzzel, Maul didn’t mind, so long as it meant the hologram wasn’t bothering him.

–

Tovarskl screamed with hate, with blood, with rage and pain and death. Jedi Master T’chooka D’oon felt it as soon as the Jedi shuttle left hyperspace, and it only grew louder as the craft settled to the ground.

“I don’t like this,” said T’chooka’s companion, Knight Jmmaar, in the burbling, clicking language of Viraann. The viraanntesse master was kind, patient, and conscientious, but sadly, too many sentients couldn’t see past the hard green exoskeleton and the ten pairs of skittering limbs ending in sharp pincers. T’chooka had been friends with Jmmaar’s master, however, and worked with the younger Jedi on many missions, and thus was more than familiar with the young knight’s temperament—and had a better understanding of Viraann than the average human.

“What, specifically, do you dislike?” T’chooka asked as they stepped off the shuttle, keeping his tone open and curious. Their landing site was warm and humid, and he could already feel sweat beading in the dark stubble on his scalp.

“I feel like we don’t have enough information in general,” Jmmaar answered, compound eyes peering out over the landscape. “We don’t know who these kaleesh are. We don’t know why they hate the yam’rii so much. We don’t know why the Trade Federation is so interested in affairs here.” The antennae near his mouth wiggled, a gesture akin to a human shaking their head in dismay. “I also wish we had a proper Judiciary force with us. These droids make me uncomfortable.”

T’chooka nodded as he peered around their landing site. The Jedi had arrived with two squads of Judiciary troops, formed of half a dozen different species. The rest of their fighting force was on loan from the Trade Federation, and thus consisted almost entirely of droids. He’d initially feared that meant only the cheap, spindly droids the Federation used to guard its warehouses and freighters. But as he watched platoons of heavy repulsor tanks and personnel carriers detach from enormous landing craft, he found himself filled with a different kind of fear. “I’m not bothered by the droids themselves, so much as why a shipping company—no matter how large—has such a well-equipped army ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.” 

“I certainly plan to make a note of that in my report to the Council,” Jmmaar said. “At least they’re on our side.”

“For the moment.” T’chooka shook his head. “Hopefully we can resolve this quickly. Maybe there’s some key to kaleesh psychology that the yam’rii have missed that will help us resolve this without a full-scale war.”

“I’ll have to rely on you for that. I can read yam’rii body language just fine, but you two-leggers all look the same to me.”

T’chooka snorted. “That’s fair enough. Come, let’s get this mess sorted and see what we can do.”

–

The man who had once been Qymaen jai Sheelal peered through the scope of his rifle at the huk encampment. Somewhere, he’d learned that the aliens had a different name, that they called themselves “yam’rii”, but they had surrendered their right to self-identification when they set Kalee aflame. When they sought to enslave Qymaen’s people. When they killed Ronderu lij Kummar.

Qymaen no longer existed. He had left that name to bleed out in the sea alongside his love. He was only Grievous, Khagan of Kalee.

The huk were buzzing. They were waiting for something, anticipating something new. Based on his scout’s reports, it likely had something to do with the foreign starships touching down some distance away. Would these new aliens be friends, or enemies? Grievous didn’t expect any miracles, but it was worth learning.

With a call to his izvoshra, the veteran warriors he had inducted into his personal bodyguard, Grievous turned away from the hill and started on the path back to his people’s camp. They would attack the huk while the bugs were distracted, then meet these new interlopers.

Grievous’ plan was interrupted when a black-clad form seemed to materialize from the fire-grass in front of him. Another alien, this one human-like save for the ring of horns around his bald scalp. His coloration seemed perfectly suited as camouflage in the plains of Tavorskl, red skin marked with black tattoos. The man sneered, yellow eyes seeming to pierce through Grievous’ mask and peer into his soul.

Grievous turned to one of the izvoshra, Bentilais. “Kill him,” he barked out.

“That would be inadvisable, Khagan,” the man in black said in Basic with an unexpectedly soft voice. Grievous spoke the language, though not well. “I am, after all, only here to help.”

“Help?” Grievous looked the man up and down. “With what?”

“What else?” The man gestured past Grievous’ shoulder. “With your war. Against the yam’rii. And against the Republic.”

“We have no war with the Republic,” Grievous said, eyes narrowing. “Only with the huk.”

“Alas, the huk have brought outsiders in on their side.” The man gave a careless shrug. “Mostly droids, from what I could see. Little match for such great warriors as you, though their vehicles might pose a problem. More importantly, though, they are led by Jedi. Holy warriors of great power and skill. If they should turn against you… Well. I don’t imagine the war will end the way you want.”

Grievous had heard rumor of the Jedi, though he had little reason to think they were anything but myth. Armored vehicles were more of a problem, though. “And you can make it otherwise?”

“I can.” The man grinned. “I’m more powerful than any Jedi. And I can bring you weapons and munitions to counter the new threats that you will be facing. I’m afraid your old slugthrowers may struggle against Trade Federation tanks.”

“And what would your price be?”

“Why, nothing at all. Simply the service of your people as my soldiers.”

Grievous snorted. “My people have fought for longer than I’ve lived to be free of those who would enslave us. I will not sell my people to one slaver to free them from another.” He started walking again, giving the man in red a wide berth. “You offered to help, so we will let you live. We will kill you if you follow us, though.”

The man stepped back into Grievous’ path. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood the arrangement. I am not giving you an offer. I am giving you an order.”

Grievous made a point of looking left and right across the red plains. “And how do you plan to enforce that ord—hrkk!”

He was interrupted mid-word by a sudden pressure on his throat. Panic started to set in as the warlord lifted off the ground. He scrabbled at his neck, trying to grab whatever was choking him, but there was nothing. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Bentilais step forward, sword drawn to strike down the man in black, but then with a hiss, the alien pulled out some kind of sword made of red light and cut Bentilais’ sword in two with a motion. A gesture sent the izvoshra flying back, without the man in black ever having touched him.

Grievous’ vision was starting to fade out when suddenly he was released. He fell to the ground, getting to hands and knees as he desperately gasped in air. The man in black stepped forward and crouched in front of him.

“That’s how,” he said in a low croon. “I intend to compensate you and your people well for your service. But make no mistake. You obey my orders from now on. I will win you your war. And then, you will win me mine.”

Grievous looked up into the sorcerer’s eyes, and a shiver of fear went up his spine. And somehow, he knew the sorcerer could sense that fear within him, as the man’s smile only grew. “Very well,” Grievous rasped out through an injured throat. “We will fight with you… for now. What should we call you?”

“Maul. ‘My lord’, if you want to be formal. But my name… is Maul.”

–  
–

“Sifo-Dyas!”

The Jedi master paused in his stride, adjusting the bag slung over his shoulder. Jedi generally traveled light, but he didn’t know how long he would spend traveling in unknown reaches far from galactic civilization. Hopefully, the combination of survival gear and high-tech trinkets he’d packed into his shuttle for trade would suffice until he could get more resources from the Temple.

He smiled when he saw who’d called him. Jocasta Nu had been his friend and more for longer than the Council’s newest member, Depa Billaba, had been alive. They’d even been colleagues on the Council for some time, until Jocasta stepped down to focus on her role as Chief Archivist.

“I’m glad I could catch you before you left,” Jocasta said, laying a hand on Sifo-Dyas’ arm in a companionable gesture. A great deal of history lay behind that touch, and the seer found it fortifying.

“Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t stop by the Archives first. I didn’t want to be accused of sneaking your texts out to be lost in Wild Space.”

Jocasta rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t be the first, nor will you be the last, Sifo.” Her face grew more serious. “I saw your itinerary. Serenno is quite out of the way when traveling to Rishi.”

Sifo-Dyas hesitated, his jocular smile fading. “...Yes, I suppose it is.”

Silence lingered between them. They both knew there was only one reason Sifo-Dyas would travel to Serenno, a world that had little fondness for the Jedi and hadn’t called upon Republic aid in years.

“No one from the Temple has spoken with him since he left,” Jocasta said softly. “Not even his former padawans. Do you think he’ll see you?”

“I don’t know,” Sifo-Dyas answered, letting his bag slip from his shoulder and rest on the ground. “But I have to try. I don’t know when I’ll be back in the galaxy—if I’ll be back. This is the first time I’ve left the Temple since… since I’ve become more lucid. I need to see him. Even if it’s for the last time.”

Jocasta smiled softly and took Sifo-Dyas’ hand, holding it gently between both of hers. “I understand. I just… worry for you. You didn’t take his leaving well. I don’t want to see your heart broken again. I loved Dooku as much as you, but… I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Sifo-Dyas instinctively looked over his shoulder; ‘love’ was a dangerous word to bandy about in the Temple. But no one paid attention to two aged masters sharing a quiet word in a hallway. “I know. I don’t think he will either. I wasn’t planning to ask him to. I just… want to understand. What made him leave. What...”

“What you could have done differently,” Jocasta finished softly. She sighed at Sifo-Dyas’ nod. “You can’t blame yourself. He had a foot out the door for decades. Since Qui-Gon’s knighting, if not longer.”

“I know that, at least up here.” Sifo-Dyas tapped his temple. “But my heart… Well, my heart has never been the best at escaping my fears.”

Jocasta sighed and nodded. The two stood like that for a while, just feeling each other’s energy in the Force, until Sifo-Dyas’ comm beeped.

“I should get going. Is...” Sifo-Dyas hesitated. “If I see him. Is there anything that you want me to tell him?”

Jocasta hesitated before answering. “Just… that we miss him. And that it wouldn’t kill the man to call once in a while.”

“Understood,” Sifo-Dyas answered with a small smile. 

He turned to leave, but Jocasta caught his hand. Turning back, she togged on his collar to pull him down, and pressed a kiss to his lips, gentle and kind.

“This won’t be the last time we speak,” Jocasta said with conviction, looking Sifo-Dyas in the eyes.

“No. No it isn’t,” he answered, with all the conviction of a man inundated with visions of the future.

At that, she let him go, and he stooped to scoop up his bag and finish the walk to the hangar.

–

Sifo-Dyas watched as Coruscant faded from view under his shuttle. The droid in the pilot’s seat had matters well in hand, which was good; he’d never been the most gifted pilot. He sat back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes, waiting for the jolt that signaled a jump to hyperspace. He’d be at Serenno soon, and he wanted to be—

The vision hit him hard, washing over him as the viewports went blue with the endless static swirl of hyperspace.

_Sifo-Dyas was surrounded by water under a dark, stormy sky. Great metal cities floated on the ocean, letting electricities roll down lightning rods, as great flying reptiles wheeled overhead. In front of him, a panel opened, revealing blinding white, and a long slender hand reached out to him._

_Then he was on Jedha, in the capital. The Force thrummed through him, biting sand whizzed through the air, and the city sang with kyber. An elegant sculpture carved entirely of the crystal stood guard in front of the Temple of the Kyber, made to look like a faceless Jedi master. The green lightsaber he held, though, was very real._

_Another world, this one a great silver city under a transparent dome, steel and greenery surrounded by blasted desert. Two lightsabers stood in a mount side by side, one pale blue, one a strange midnight black with a broad blade and crackling white lightning around it._

_More worlds flashed by. A desert world with two suns, where a white lightsaber secured in shifting sand as crowds roared in the distance. A red, rocky world with three lightsabers—green and yellow crossed, a blue held vertically—embedded in a cairn. A purple saber in a lush green field. A red blade near-invisible in a field of fire-red grass. A blue blade in the hospital room of a space station. And one that took his breath away—a red blade emerging from a familiar curved grip, mounted to the front of Castle Serenno._

_Sifo-Dyas’ view pulled back, but the light of the sabers remained, the kyber crystals harmonizing with one another—even with the red blades. More sabers joined them, in stranger colors—pink and teal and grey. He saw the galaxy spinning, as it ever did, shimmering in an iridescent rainbow from a thousand saber blades. They were on separate worlds, used in separate lessons, their owners divided…_

_And yet, in the Force, they were one._

–

Sifo-Dyas’ feet dragged as he walked through the hall of Castle Serenno, guided by a protocol droid. It’d been so long since he felt a vision of such intensity, and this one had knocked him out for the entire trip from Coruscant to the Outer Rim. And yet, he didn’t feel rested. It was downright unfair how he could spend so much time unconscious and yet get no sleep.

Dooku sat on a throne on a dais, chin kept imperiously high, though he and Sifo-Dyas were the only organics in the room. He was older, some of the last remnants of black hair fading to grey, but he was just as distinguished as Sifo-Dyas remembered.

“Welcome to Serenno, Master Jedi,” the count said, voice tightly controlled and formal. “What business do the Jedi have with an old man?”

“No business that I know of,” Sifo-Dyas answered. “I’m not here in an official capacity. Can’t a man just come visit an old friend?”

“I don’t know. Are members of the Council allowed to have ‘old friends’? Where councilors go, official business tends to follow.”

“Oh.” Sifo-Dyas shook his head. “No, I’m not on the Council anymore. I’m just a humble Jedi now.”

Dooku’s eyes widened. “Truly? The fools removed you from your position? Were they so afraid of your visions?”

“I stepped down. My visions have… changed. I...” Sifo-Dyas hesitated. “I’m going on a trip, into Wild Space. I… don’t know when I will return. I don’t know when I’ll be back, and… I miss you, Dooku.”

The count glowered at him for a while, hawk eyes scanning the Jedi for any hint of deception. He seemed to find none, as Dooku sagged and stood, stepping down from the dais. “I’ve missed you too, Sifo,” he said softly, in gentle tones that swept Sifo-Dyas’ mind and heart back to better times. “My apologies for the rude greeting. I… am not used to welcoming a friend to the castle.” With a deep breath, Dooku mustered a warm smile, and took Sifo-Dyas’ hand in his. “Join me in my study for a drink, would you? Tell me about your trip. I… would be happy to speak with an old friend.”

Sifo-Dyas smiled, letting himself be led on. “I’d like that. Jocasta sends her regards, by the way. She says she misses you. And that she understands you’re not coming back, but that she wishes you would at least call.”

Dooku’s mouth twisted as he started a retort, before thinking better of it and shaking his head. “...I miss her as well. Perhaps… perhaps I will talk to her. For old times’ sake.”

“For old times’ sake,” Sifo-Dyas echoed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As may be obvious, I'll be mixing new-canon and Legends elements according to my whim, with a preference for new-canon. Thus, no Komari Vosa in this timeline.


End file.
